I weave lies of resentment for every sweet blossom, refusing to hold my desire in the light for fear of life being borne out of thoughtlessness. I enclose myself tight within a safety of invulnerability. If there's a passage of leniency a seed will sprout in the most intimate part of me out of instinct, and comfort only to surely die off before the roots branch out and breathes. 

Without doubt everyone sees what doesn't dare slip off anyone's tongue behind the praises that feel empty, to carry the gentleness of a bouquet yet to be gathered is a blessing I am not worthy of. Even now lying in the dark enveloped in the privacy of my solitude wondering if the petals would be pink or blue, the thought vines around my throat and chokes me. What could I say? To my sweet magnolia that's too fragile for my sharp edged love-- words couldn't explain the failures that could poison them if they dare to bloom.

I bear nothing more than a ruined dream that ran red with my blood when my pride executed it from the inside out. There's an insistance of fear holding onto my heart wailing at any wanting. My soul is not meant to nurture another and yet desperation grows within me that turns to envy once another celebrates what I scorn myself for longing. 

Better to weave lies so as not to disturb the balance between my death and my sanity, the simple truth caught between the two unable to live in peace. I wish to be cut from the vines that doubt has imprisoned me but I'm unready for freedom and a magnolia seed. So I weave.